The Magpie is Australia's Bird of the Year, narrowly defeating the Ibis in second place and poor old kookaburra in third. I do happen to love magpies, they often to drop in for a visit. Sometimes if we are up late they stand at the back door and sing for their breakfast.

This is a Magpie story I wrote some years ago.

​The Magpie’s SongOnce upon a spring time, this story and a song were hatched.

As three magpie chicks pecked through their shells and spilled into their nest, it was apparent, even to the dimwitted parents that while their first two hatchlings were perfectly ordinary magpies, there was something extra ordinary about the third hatchling…and as the third chick grew feathers… her beauty became apparent for all to see. With feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight, they named her Mirrabooka, after the stars in the night sky.

And so it was that Mirrabooka grew into a bird of spectacular beauty. While the other magpie chicks were learning to catch food and build nests, Mirra was kept in the nest and taught how to preen. Mirra longed to hunt and fly like the other young birds but her parents were only concerned with her appearance so Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight stayed in the nest and preened.

Long after all the all other chicks had left the nest, Mirra’s parents persuaded her to stay behind, so they could bask in the glory of their daughter’s beauty. They even continued feeding Mirra so that her time could be better spent preening.

One day, when Mirra’s parents were sitting on the ground discussing which angle was best for viewing her beauty, a couple of neighbourhood cats pounced on the dimwitted birds and gobbled them all up. Alone in the nest, Mirra preened tears of sadness into her feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight.

All AloneMirra was terribly lonely and she was very, very hungry. The only skill Mirra knew was preening and preening did not fill her belly. Eventually loneliness and hunger drove Mirra from the nest, but her flying was feeble and her hunting skills poor. Mirra called to the other Magpies but they thought her vain and they left her alone. Each night Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight returned to her nest to preen, hungrier and lonelier than the day before.

On the third day Mirra woke to find a scruffy, old magpie sitting in her tree. His feathers were grey rather than black and white and they weren’t smooth and sleek like Mirra’s but sticking out at rather odd angles. The old bird cocked his head and sang. Despite his appearance he had a fine strong voice and Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight listened and preened as the old bird sang.

FlightHe sang of flight and beating wings,Of long fast glides on freezing winds.He sang of practice and determination,Skillful maneuvers through hanging branches.He sang of flying for pure joy,Of reaching heights only gods enjoy.

Then Mirra with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight, beat her wings and flew. She flew for the learning, she flew for the yearning and she flew for the sheer joy of being a bird.

The next morning Mirra was delighted to find the old magpie still sitting in her tree. Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight listened and preened as he began to sing again.

NourishmentHe sang of worms and early morning,Foraging for food under leaves fallen.He sang of patience and keen sight,Of creeping danger and delectable delight.He sang of hunting as employ,Of feeding his soul with pure joy.Then Mirra with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight, beat her wings and flew and hunted. She hunted for hunger, she hunted in wonder and she hunted for the sheer joy of being a bird.

The following day, after filling her belly, Mirra looked to find the old bird still in her tree. So Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight, listened and preened as he began to sing again.

FriendsHe sang of friends and companionship,Of lasting ties and fellowship.He sang of friends won and lost,Of what he gained and what it cost.He sang of care and company,Mutual respect and harmony.

Then Mirra with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight realised that though the old magpie’s voice was strong and clear, his body was old and his eyes weak, and so she flew and hunted then she shared her food for fellowship, and the sheer joy of companionship.

In the cool of the morning Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight listened and preened as the old bird began to sing once more.

Love & FamilyHe sang of passion and of love,Of sweet young partners long since gone.He sang of romance and delight,Of responsibility and sacrifice.He sang of families he loved best,Of joy and sorrow and empty nests.

Then Mirra looked at the old Magpie and saw his eyes growing dim. As a cold wind blew up and swirled around them she stretched her wing and sheltered him with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight. Together they perched in companionable silence while the winter storm raged around them.

In the morning, Mirra listened… but there was no song, her tree was empty. Below the tree, she found the old magpie, as cold as the frozen winter earth. Then Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feather whiter than starlight flew down and kept vigil, preening the old bird’s feathers with her tears.

As the golden light of the next day dawned, Mirra felt an unfamiliar pressure building…building, building in her chest. Feeling like her heart would burst, Mirra, with feathers black as midnight and feathers whiter than starlight gave her friend a parting caress and then took to the sky.

Up and up, she flew, higher and further than she had ever flown before. Mirra flew over gardens and towns, rivers and lakes, over valleys and plains and she flew to the highest mountain and there her chest burst open… and out flew a song;

Hopes & DreamsAnd she sang of her friend and his life so swift,Of her profound love and his great gift.She sang of her joy and of her sorrow,Of her hopes and dreams, for tomorrow.She sang of a young bird lost and alone,And a friend who found her heart and home.

Mirra sang from the depth and the breadth of her heart and when at last her song was done; she found to her surprise, another Magpie listening. He was a fine, handsome bird. Mirra looked down at her own feathers...she couldn’t remember the last time she had preened. Her feathers were scruffy and dull, but he didn’t see her feathers, he saw Mirra, with heart brighter than sunlight, and heart softer than moonlight …and together they sang:

Love & JoyAnd they sang of love fresh and new,Like mountain streams and morning dew.They sang of happiness, joy profound,Of hopes and dreams in each other found.They sang of life and building nestsAnd they sang of an old magpie, who was heaven sent.

At last our Government has recognised that all love is equal, and now it will also be recognised as legal. Ulf and I had the honour of performing a handfasting ceremony for my daughter Jessie and her partner Hayley a few days before the announcement. (love has it's own timetable) These two wonderful women celebrated their love, their commitment to love one-another always in front of family & friends. And we found the perfect story to tell at their ceremony which speaks about the awesome power of love.

Love is Love is Love

​Lindy: And soon we will celebrate the day, when all love is recognised as equal and legal. For Love is love is love… and heaven knows, the world needs more love. A very wise man Plato once said;

Humans have never understood the power of Love, for if they had they would surely have built noble temples and altars and offered solemn sacrifices; but this is not done, and most certainly ought to be done, since Love is our best friend, our helper, and the healer of the ills which prevent us from being happy.

Plato said that to understand the power of Love, we must understand that our original human nature was not like it is now, Plato tells a very different creation story…

A Very Different Creation Story

Ulf: In the beginning human beings were not singular beings as we are today but a fusion of two beings into one- each of these ancient beings had two sets of arms, two sets of legs, and two faces looking in opposite directions. So of course there were not just two sexes man and woman… There were three manwithman, womanwithman & womanwithwoman. The unified beings of two men were called the Children of the Sun, the second unified being of man and woman, were called the Children of the Moon and the third unified beings of two women called the Children of the Earth.

The power of these original unified human beings was great. So great that the Gods themselves felt threatened. So they looked for a way to end the humans' power without totally destroying them.

Mighty Zeus cast down his thunderbolt and split these unified-beings in two. Alas, not only reducing their power but rendering them incomplete, so that for evermore each half would long and search for their missing part. … And if by chance they found one another again they would throw their arms about one another, desperately trying, to be one united being again.

The Ancient DesireThis ancient desire is imbued in all of us. Today We still seek to return to our original double nature, reuniting two into one, and thus healing the state of humankind. Each of us when separated, having one side only, is always seeking our other half.

Those whose original nature lies with the Children of the Sun, are men who are drawn to other men. Those from the Children of the Moon, are men and women drawn to one another. And those from the Children of the Earth are women who love other women.

And when one of us meets our other half, we are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other's sight even for a moment. We pass our whole lives together, desiring that we should be melted into one, to spend our lives as one person instead of two, and so that after our death there will be one departed soul instead of two; this is the very expression of our ancient need.

For our human nature was whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called Love.

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Congratulations and much love to the beautiful couple. PS: We'll do the legal stuff after the honeymoon

Many people are still of the opinion that storytelling is only an activity for bedtime or, for entertaining the little ones but there are some who have discovered the secret power of storytelling to Educate by stealth (don’t tell the kids). Yes, all manner of educational subjects can be beautifully wrapped, delivered and wholeheartedly consumed as story. But don’t believe me, let me tell you a story…

Truth and StoryLong long ago when the world was young, Truth walked the world as an old man. Everything about him was old, his hands, his face even the remnants of his clothes. His skin was all wrinkly, his joints gnarly and his clothes so ragged and threadbare, he was just about naked.

​When he arrived in a town, he would walk up to people and say hello, but people wouldn’t look at Truth, they turned and walked away. “I don’t understand why don’t people want to hear what I have to say. When I’m not around people always say they want to hear the Truth, but as soon as I am here, they avoid me”

Then Truth saw a large gathering in the town square, the people were listening to someone with great interest. He approached the crowd thinking “Surely they will listen to me too”, but as he approached the people turned and hurried away. The only person left on the street was Story. Story was dressed in beautiful robes of all the colours of the rainbow. The fabric seemed magical, it’s hues shimmered and changed as she moved.

“I don’t understand” said Truth to Story. “People just don’t want to hear what I have to say. Is it because I am old?” “No” said Story, “Look at me, I am as old as you and people still listen to me.” Looking at the state of Truth’s clothes, Story added “Perhaps the problem is your appearance, you are rather stark. Come home with me and I will give you a beautiful robe to wear.”

So, Truth went home with Story and Story dressed truth into a beautiful robe of many colours. They walked through the town arm in arm…and rather than turn away, people hurried to talk to them. Truth and Story were even invited into their homes for dinner and there, they talked with families till the wee small hours of the morning.

​And that’s how it is today. When Truth walks naked in the world, people turn away. But when Truth walks with Story, they are invited into our homes and our hearts.

When Education and Storytelling Walk Hand in HandToday I’m writing about the “Truths” of education, teaching such things such as environmental concepts, social responsibility, emotional literacy, mathematics, science and of course history, all these subjects can be beautifully wrapped in story and delivered in an engaging & entertaining way for easy & enthusiastic consumption. Environmentalists, Educators and Scientists are rediscovering the value of storytelling, a value which has long been known by our ancestors and still practiced today by various religions and Indigenous peoples.In the book “Storytelling for a Greener World”, they describe storytelling as “Trojan Horse”. Storytelling is offered as an irresistible gift, and once it is consumed, then the metaphors and images go to work, sneaking past the citadel of the human mind, a perfect weapon to bring important messages to environmentally jaded people today.

Not Another Lesson!While preschoolers are certainly not jaded, some primary school children will roll their eyes and sigh, “not another lesson on Reduce Reuse Recycle and Sustainability” We recently shared two programs of stories with an After-School Care Centre, we didn’t mention the word sustainability or talk about environmental concepts, but they were the themes of our stories. After the show we had some lively conversations with children as they shared their thoughts and feelings. The stories had penetrated their inner world, evoked their emotions, sparked their imaginations and their minds. Storytelling doesn’t just teach but it encourages children to care.That week heart to Heart Storytelling also did an environmental program for preschoolers, again we dressed everything in story. The class then planted seeds to the rhymes and songs used in our stories. The teacher later told us “the children loved it and had some lovely reflections on the experience which sparked some discussions about caring for the earth”.

Storytelling is also a fabulous way to teach character, social skills and emotional literacy. These are some of our favourite stories, the folk tales with the wisdom of the ages which speak to the values of friendship, honesty, courage, co-operation, kindness & resourcefulness. Values like co-operation, or kindness are abstract concepts to young children, but dress them beautifully in story… then co-operation is the inner image of everyone working together to pull out The Enormous Stubborn Turnip,and kindness is understood by such archetypal characters as the helpful hen in The Rooster and the Bean.

How Many Bears?Even mathematics can be taught by stealth, how many bears, chairs, bowls & beds were there? One of the best mathematical folk tales we have come across for older children is from India, A Grain Of Rice. In this story the Raja is hording rice while his people starve. A young girl tricks the Raja into giving her one grain of rice on the first day then, doubling the amount of rice every day for 30 days. The Raja thinks he is on a good deal till he does the sums, or better yet have your class do the multiplications.

History of course, is made of stories… then why break it down and teach names, dates and events? Rewrap history in its colourful stories, the outback explorers on exciting expeditions, the outrageous escapades of early convicts, or our seafarer’s rollicking maritime adventures.And what better way to teach about our First Nation’s People and their rich heritage but by inviting them to come and share their stories.

Ulf and I encourage you to make story an integral part of your lessons, for when Truth, or should we say Education walks naked in the world, children may roll their eyes and turn away, but when Education walks with Story, they are invited into the hearts, minds and imagination of children everywhere.

Resources:A Grain of Rice pg. 286 The Right Story at the Right Time; Changing the Lives of Children & Adolescents One Story at a Time. M deCroes.Storytelling for a Greener World; Environment, Community& Story Based Learning. Gersie, Nanson, &SchieffelinThe Enormous Turnip pg. 47 Once Upon a Time: Storytelling to teach Character and prevent Bullying. E.L.PearmainThe Rooster and the Beanpg. 78 The Right Story at the Right Time; Changing the Lives of Children & Adolescents One Story at a Time. M deCroes.Truth and StoryLindy Mitchell-Nilsson’s retelling of a Jewish Folktale

​This is tale I wrote a few years ago for our local Whale Dreaming Festival. I love to share this tale and at the end of the story, ask the audience to shut their eyes and listen for the wise song of the whale as I play a crystal bowl.

Luna is one of our many original environmental tales. We also love to share traditional folk & fairy tales and ancient myths as their environmental wisdom speaks to us across the ages. Photo; Spirit of Goldcoast Whale Watching Tour

Mythical White CreaturesIn cultures all over the world, the birth or appearance of a white animal holds special significance; a prophecy or a blessing. Many myths and legends have been told about these magical creatures. In North America they have The Story of the White Buffalo, in India the Myth of the White Tiger and in Australia we have The Legend of Luna, The White Whale.

Though an old legend, this story is not ancient, for in ancient times the people of Australia lived in harmony with the land and the ocean. This story took place when I was just a girl.

One cool salty night, in warm tranquil waters, when the moon was full and high in the sky, a huge humpback whale labored long then gave birth to a female calf. Instinctively, the mammoth mother pushed her calf to the surface of the sea, and there, bathed only in soft moonlight the young calf drew her first breath.The Moon and mother whale were amazed to see that the calf shone as white as the moon herself and they named the white whale, Luna-Moon Sister.

​Wise Song of the WhalesLuna grew quickly as she swam with her mother along the whale migration lines up and down the east coast of Australia. North to the warm tropical waters of Queensland and south to the icy seas of the Antarctic …and while they swam her mother would sing. Singing, singing always singing the wise song of the whales. With each migration up and down the coast, Luna learnt the wise song of the whales. Till Luna too joined in…singing, singing, always singing the wise song of the whales.

And as Luna sang, she grew wise. And though she was wise in the way of the whales, Luna didn’t understand the way of people. Why did they dump their foul smelling waste in the ocean? Why did they use such long fishing nets to catch thousands of fish only to throw many back dead or dying? And why did they kill whales? Luna asked the whale elders and, as wise as they were, they could not answer. Luna asked her pale Moon Sister high in the sky, but the moon just shone gently down.

Luna thought perhaps the people had no one to teach them the wise song of the whales and so she began swimming, closer to shore, singing, singing, always singing the wise songs of the whales. She swam up rivers and into harbours, Luna swam around boats, singing, singing, always singing the wise song of the whales but the humans’ destructive way continued till Luna thought her enormous heart would burst with sadness.

A Gift Both Great & TerribleAt last the Moon could bare her whale sister’s sadness no more and she granted Luna a gift both great and terrible. The Moon’s gift was to turn Luna into a woman for thirteen cycles of the moon, so Luna could sing the wise songs of the whales in human form. But to do this Luna had to go against the wisdom of the whales and beach herself upon the sand.

So, one night when the moon was full and high in the sky and the tide was at its peak, Luna lunged toward the beach, thrusting her tremendous body onto the sand…and as the tide retreated… Luna lay on the coarse sand bathed only in soft moonlight.

The moonlight shone on Luna until it too retreated like the tide leaving there on the beach lay a beautiful young woman with pale white skin, hair like moonlight and eyes all the swirling, twirling colours of the sea.

Luna rose awkwardly to her feet, already she missed the gentle caress and support of the ocean but her heart was happy because now she could sing the wise song of the whale as a human and people would understand.

Thirteen Cycles of the MoonFor thirteen cycles of the moon Luna walked the length and breadth of Australia, singing, singing always singing the wise song of the whales. Luna sang to many communities, she sang for business leaders, she sang for governments. Luna sang for churches, universities and schools, singing, singing, always singing the wise song of the whale. She even sang to the whalers and fishermen.

A few people did not want to listen to Luna, and some people still did not understand her song. But many people listened and understood… and they began to change their destructive ways.

Thirteen cycles of the moon soon passed. Luna knew she had to be back on the beach when the moon was full and high in the sky and the tide was at its peak but there was one last community to sing the wise song of the whales. At last Luna arrived at the beach, the moon was full but no longer high in the sky, she disrobed and lay down upon the sand. Slowly the moon retreated like the tide leaving a lonely white whale beached upon the sand.

But Luna was late, and the tide had already retreated and so Luna lay on the coarse sand dying, bathed only in the last fading beams of moonlight.

Luna was sad she would not see her mother again, nor feel the gentle caress of the ocean once more but her enormous heart was full of joy for she had sung the wise way of the whales for people and they had listened and understood.

Raw sewerage no longer flowed into the ocean, people were demanding sustainable fishing practices and they had finally halted the killing of whales in Australia…But best of all the children had opened their hearts and learnt her song and now they were singing, singing, always singing wise songs of the whales across the length and breadth of the land.

The Moon WeptThe Moon wept tears of pearl into the ocean with the death of her whale sister… She vowed never to transform another white creature into human form… instead she blessed all white animals with the ability to inspire mankind to examine how they live and remember the wise song of the whales.

Decades have past and wise ways forgotten, since Luna sang but recently… two other white whales have appeared in our ocean, the first whale, Migaloo who’s aboriginal name means White Fella, and most recently Bahloo whose name quite magically means Moon.

Ulf and I prefer telling stories outside under trees in parks rather than in halls or rooms.

Of course, there are many distractions outdoors and we know we will lose a percentage of our audience to mother nature, but we don’t mind at all. Connecting children to their local natural environment and fostering their sense of stewardship is one of our passions as storytellers.

We begin our storytelling with an Indigenous song and an acknowledgement of country and then we call in the nature spirits.

“I call to the fairies, I call to elves,Pack up your flowers and leave your green homes.I call to the pixies, I call to the elves,Please stop your dancing, come in from the dells.I call to the trees, ancient and wiseShhhh they whisper, it’s story time, it’s story time.”

The spell is cast… perhaps it is the collective belief of the children in fairies, or perhaps IT IS the fairies, maybe it is the appreciative response of nature as we tell her stories, or perhaps it’s the stories themselves that create the magic. Whatever the reason, as we share our stories, the trees seem to lean in closer and so do the children, nature becomes enchanted.

Re-enchanting the natural world​Environmental storytelling is using the ancient art of oral storytelling, as our ancestors once did, to teach about the natural world, our relationship within it and to foster the sense of stewardship. Environmental storytelling doesn’t have to take place in the great outdoors, you can tell indoors then perhaps visit a small garden, or adopt a local tree.

So why tell an environmental story rather than just teach children the facts?

You can tell children the facts, you can tell them how a butterfly emerges, or who a bat hears, you can explain how bad pollution is, and how awful plastics are. You can talk about the terrible loss of rainforests, or the consequences of greed … but facts won’t make a child care.

In fact, too many doom and gloom facts about the environment shut children down – the problems are too big, too overwhelming for one person, especially a little person, to do anything about.Facts appeal to the left-hand side of the brain, the left is the mathematical and logical brain but the left side of the brain doesn’t make children care. That’s why we need to appeal to the right side of the brain, the centre for language, imagination, creativity, emotions, empathy and connection.

Storytelling, along with art & music are the language of the right brain. Connect with the right side of children’s brains and you connect to their hearts.

Sprouting new environmentalists​When you tell children a story, you evoke their wonder & imagination, you engage their hearts & elicit empathy. Empathy is seeing with eyes of an another, hearing with the ears of another, and feeling with the heart of another and that is one of storytelling’s greatest gifts, giving listeners the opportunity to the experience the world through another, whether an animal, mythical creature or someone from another culture or time.

A well told story will take root like a seed in the heart of a child. When their imaginations and wonder are engaged then curiosity follows, and then they will ask questions and demand facts because, now they feel connected, now they have a relationship with the subject, now they care.

And by following up the story up with an activity, such as an art & craft activity, a visit to a tree or park, then that story seed will sprout, perhaps even growing into tomorrow’s environmentalist.

Simple tales of complex issuesStories, such as folktales, fairytales and myths use metaphorical truths to help us understand and connect to and care about our local environment and our natural world. And there are many wonderful stories, suitable for all age groups, from cultures all around the world which still speak to every environmental concern of today. Some of these tales are not set in a particular place and time and these tales lend themselves to being transposed into our local landscape. Others add a layer of multicultural richness to their environmental themes.

​There are many wonderful collections of folktales covering the whole gamut of environmental themes, with many of the stories either perfect for or very adaptable for the Early Learning Setting. Even the most complex of environmental concepts can be shared simply and effectively in a story. We love to tell the Grimm’s tale of The Fisherman’s Wife, it’s a fun story which metaphorically speaks about sustainability, but even the youngest of audience members has said at the end,“She just wanted too much, she was too greedy”

Now it’s your turnSo, we encourage you, when teaching environmental concepts start with a story, add some rhymes, repetitions, actions and follow up with an activity. Storytelling will ignite their imaginations, spark their curiosity and stoke the fire in their hearts to care for their environment. In today’s world of disconnect, virtual reality and electronic media, the planet needs us to help restore this connection, the relationship between child and nature, for the future wellbeing of all earth’s inhabitants.

My home is across the road from a lagoon, it’s an old house with million-dollar views of the water and bush. It has a rusty tin roof, it there’s a large hole in the ceiling and it rains in my kitchen. I even have vines growing through my bedroom wall, and I kind of like that, but what I don’t like is rats. These unwanted house guests always arrive with the first autumn cold snap. That’s when they move across the road seeking the warmth of a family home, my family home.

Unwanted House GuestI knew I had a rat in the house, I read it in the runes-his little black dropping on the kitchen bench. This particular rat was sneaking in at night, right under the sleepy noses of our two dogs Patch and Pixie. Rat would help himself to a midnight snack, making sure always to leave his little black calling cards on the kitchen bench for me to find in the morning. Even then, I didn’t want to kill him merely remove and release him back into the wild. Noble intentions, I’m sure you’ll agree

​At the local hardware store, I approached the expert handyman and asked for a humane rat trap. When his raucous laughter died down, he explained. “No such thing luv, just kill the nasty buggers, funniest thing I ever heard being humane rat trap”. He handed me a very ugly instrument of death and wandered off shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

That night after the kids had gone to bed, I sat with the trap….To kill or not to kill Would it kill cleanly and swiftly? What if it didn’t kill cleanly, would rat suffer? What if he was still alive but incapacitated, would I have the guts to finish him off…. Would there be blood and guts? All these questions pounded in my head and hammered at my heart.

Finally, late that night, instead of setting the trap, I decided to give rat three warnings, verbal not written. “Rat, you have three days to leave the house or I will set the trap.” The next morning, I found his little black runes once more. The second night “Rat you have two days to leave the house or I will set the trap” Again he mocked me with his droppings. The third night “Rat, please, please, please leave the house or tomorrow I set the trap”.Alas, the third morning dawned with sun shining on those little vile black bullets scattered with such disdain over my kitchen bench. As with all unwanted house guests and relatives who outstay their welcome, drastic action was called for……Madam Guillotine.I baited the trap with organic peanut butter, my conscious smoothed with the thought, rat would enjoy a wholesome last meal of crunchy peanut buttery goodness. I pulled back on the spring, set the trap... then to sleep perchance to dream.

SNAP! 3am, a scream and the scrambling of paws. I raced to the kitchen and beheld the grisly scene…one bloodied rat running in circles dragging the trap, trailing bright red blood on the white kitchen floor. The two dogs stood in the corner of the kitchen, they looked at rat then each other “Wouldst thou put an end to this foul deed? Nay I shall not sully myself”. Their eyes turned to mine. The burden was mine and mine alone.

Clad only in knickers, I stood wondering what the hell I was going to do…when rat ran drunkenly out of the kitchen still trailing blood and headed for the lounge. Spurred into action, I grabbed my trusty broom and nudged rat towards the back door, but with every touch of the broom rat screamed, screamed! I didn’t know rats could scream! Nudge scream, nudge scream. Every scream cut like a knife. Eventually I pushed rat to the back door where I putted him out into the yard. He flew in one direction and the trap in another. I slammed the door shut. Then I returned to mop up the grizzly crime scene in the kitchen under the accusing glare of the dogs. “Yet Who would have thought the old rat to have had so much blood in him.”

"Out Damn Spot"I washed my hands over and over again, “Will these hands ne’er be clean? No more my lord no more”Well the next year another cold snap brought more unwelcome guests. I couldn’t face the trauma of madam guillotine again and so I after three verbal warnings I put out rat bait. I felt awful, I didn’t want anything to suffer, not even rat, but I had a family to protect. Consumed with guilt I laid out the poison…

Now it says on the poison packet that after consuming rat bait, rats will go outside to look for water. Perhaps my rat was illiterate, perhaps even a lateral thinker because my rat decided to die in the bathroom ceiling. At first there was just a whiff of something not quite right…and then after an unseasonably hot day with the sun on the rusty tin roof, the smell of death and decay, “all the perfumes of Arabia would not sweeten this little bathroom”. On that first day, you could hold your breath long enough to use the toilet but then came the flies! The room turned black overnight. A black seething mass covered every surface in the room, maggots dripped from the ceiling vent. We couldn’t use the bathroom for 10 days, and the smell lingered even longer than Lady Macbeth’s damn spot. It seemed a fitting punishment for my heinous crime. “Will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o that my lord no more o that”

The next year a new mega hardware store opened…I asked the young handyman What do you have to have to kill rats?” “We have large range of humane rat traps, mam” he admonished and he showed me a whole aisle with a dazzling bright selection. They looked very modern indeed, lovely steel and glass apartments for rats and mice. I perused the shelf, reading all the information, gauging each humanitarian ranking. This wasn’t an instrument of rat torture this was a rat condominium. My nobility restored, I hurried to catch my rat and return him to the wild.

​That night I placed the organic peanut butter in the condo, I rushed out in the morning eager to find my house guest but he was a no show. The next night I tempted him with the pungent aroma of Italian parmesan cheese… but still no rat. The third night I went all out wooing rat, with parmesan cheese, dark chocolate and a bottle top filled with hunter valley’s finest chardonnay. I drifted off to sleep confident rat would fall for my gastronomic charms…

Five Star Restaurant​The next morning, I peered through the glass window of the rat condo, no rat! The chocolate, cheese and wine were all gone to! It wasn’t a rat trap! It was a 5-star rat restaurant.

​And so now with the end of another summer looming, we catch glimpses of pointy noses and long tails running around the outside of the house knowing the first cold spell will send them in to share in our food and the warmth of our cozy home once again. Again, I will be faced with the question to kill or not to kill. And if to kill, what manner of death should I deal? I know there is a lesson for me here, is it about guilt? Perhaps it’s about taking responsibility for my actions, but what if it’s bigger than that? For the life of me I don’t know, maybe I should consult a fortune teller… or perhaps just ask rat, and he can spell it out for me on the kitchen bench in little black runes.

This is a story of life, death, everything in between and what comes after. It is the story of Warren Zevon, American singer song writer, death expert and me.

I was studying for my arts degree at Newcastle University in2005. I had just begun the subject “the sociology of death dying and human mortality” when I suffered a loss. It wasn’t the death of a loved one but the death of a significant relationship.

I had fallen in love with a gifted psychic. As well as my partner, he was my teacher in all things supernatural. And he was a great teacher and soon I experienced my first clear physic vision. Sadly, he not such a great boyfriend, as my vision was of him in bed with another woman. Our short but intense love affair was over, dead. Have you ever felt your heart ripped out of your chest and stomped on?

Death, Dying & Human MortalityWell it was in this state I dragged myself to my “Death, Dying and Human Mortality” class, grieving for every bit of my frail human mortality. My class was to pursue individual major studies on some aspect of death dying and human mortality… Fellow classmates were enthusiastically picking their topics; suicide poetry, roadside memorials and death rites were a few. I however, was concentrating on getting out of bed and trying to eat.

Then I met the late great Warren Zevon. My brother-in-law Jack, gave me a cd, Warren Zevon’s “The Wind”. I played it…and I played it and played it. Here was a musician who understood loss. Warren Zevon wrote and recorded The Wind, his 15th cd as he was dying.

Warren wrote and sang songs of goodbye, of regrets, and of his thoughts on impending death. The songs touched a chord deep within, they gave me comfort. I remember after every song, shutting my eyes and taking a moment to say “thank you Warren”. Not only did I find comfort… but a subject for my major study; Warren Zevon.

Werewolves of LondonNow I don’t imagine too of you would be familiar with the name Warren Zevon, but you might remember his hit song “Werewolves of London”, and he wrote hits recorded by many other artists. Warren was credited by his peers as one of America’s greatest ever singer song writers.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I set about researching the life, times and death of Warren Zevon. I listened to his songs, all 15 albums over and over, day in day out, much to the dismay of my children who despaired at my taste of music and state of mind. As I researched, I realised that it wasn’t just his last cd that was an exposition on death but in fact more than half the songs in his 15-album career concerned death. On every album cover and every poster Warren had the picture of a cigarette smoking skull. Irreverent, sardonic, poignant and thought provoking, Warren explored every manner of death, dying and human mortality through his songs.

Warren grew up with death. One of the first stories his grandmother told him was how his birth had almost killed his mother. Warren’s father was a Russian gangster with a history of violence, who courted death daily. And hanging on the lounge room wall was a portrait of Warren’s uncle and name sake, a dead war hero.

Poor Poor Pitiful MeWarren, a classically trained musician, embraced rock and roll music and the rock and roll lifestyle of excess. Warren attempted to emulate his uncle by dying a young hero, a young rock and roll hero. Besides drugs and booze, Warren also played Russian roulette with real bullets. At this stage of my break up I could empathise with his death wish, “Poor, poor pitiful me. Poor, poor pitiful me, poor, poor pitiful me!” - that song particularly resonated with my post break up mood.

After a few albums and some years, of exploring violence, excess and death, Warren didn’t die, he went to rehab. Warren’s songs then reflected his ongoing fight with alcohol and drugs while I battled my own post relationship demons, with songs like “Accidently like a Martyr. The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder”

Themes of death and dying continued to inform Warren Zevon’s songs. As the reckless years of his youth and addiction passed warren’s songs began to reflect his concern in broader social issues such as death by war, pollution, domestic violence and the breakdown of society. At this time of my post breakup blues the song the song that resonated was “Splendid isolation, I don’t need no-one, Splendid Isolation”

Life'll Kill YaWhen Warren turned fifty his thoughts turned to sickness, decrepitude and decay. His 14th album “Life’ll Kill Ya” was a hilarious, slightly scary and somewhat disturbing look at old age and dying. Out of all the ways to die, Warren said it was sickness and doctors that scared him the most.

Ironically it was Warren’s song “My Shit’s Fuck Up” about a belated trip to the doctor, which proved prophetically and fatally correct.

"Well, I went to the doctorI said, "I'm feeling kind of rough""Let me break it to you, son"Your shit's fucked up."I said, "my shit's fucked up?"Well, I don't see how-"He said, "The shit that used to work-It won't work now."

At warren’s first visit to a doctor in twenty years he was given the diagnosis, inoperable lung cancer, three months to live. Well and truly fucked, with a death sentence hanging over his head Warren set out to write and record his last album to say a few goodbyes and share his final thoughts on death and dying.

Home alone one night, I sat on the wooden floor in front of the TV and watched the documentary of the making of Warren Zevon’s final album The Wind. It follows Warren’s struggles to write and record the album as the cancer ravaged his body. The first song he wrote for the album “Keep me in your heart for a while” was the last one he recorded. Too sick to record in the studio, he recorded it at home on the lounge surrounded by his family and the paraphernalia of death.

Shadows are fallin' and I'm runnin' out of breathKeep me in your heart for a whileIf I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any lessKeep me in your heart for a whileWhen you get up in the mornin' and you see that crazy sunKeep me in your heart for a whileThere's a train leavin' nightly called "When All is Said and Done"Keep me in your heart for a whileSometimes when you're doin' simple things around the houseMaybe you'll think of me and smileYou know I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouseKeep me in your heart for a whileHold me in your thoughtsTake me to your dreamsTouch me as I fall into viewWhen the winter comesKeep the fires litAnd I will be right next to youEngine driver's headed north up to Pleasant StreamKeep me in your heart for a whileThese wheels keep turnin' but they're runnin' out of steamKeep me in your heart for a while

My tears flowed, and as they did, several shells sitting on the TV flew off then landed in my lap, then some ethereal fingers caressed my cheek …. Warren.

The weeks passed in Death Dying and human mortality, I continued listening to his songs, researching, writing and discussing my project in class, all the time comforted by his presence.

As I handed in my finished project, Warren Zevon. Songs of Finitude, I thought it only right to acknowledge Warren’s presence and influence throughout the entire project. So, with some trepidation I raised the spectre of supernatural with my lecturer “Warren Zevon has been helping me” I said, to which my lecturer replied “Oh yes, he was standing by your left shoulder every class.”

Sometime later I received MY grade, a high distinction, but it wasn’t about the grade because it wasn’t just an academic study, it wasn’t even a study about dying. Warren sung me from grief and loss, to love and life. And he taught me, death isn’t the end, there are no ends, just verses in the exquisite, eternal, song of life… and that song is love.

​And my project, well that was a collaboration of love between Warren Zevon, American singer song writer, friend and me.

It was Easter 1980, I was 19, married with a 1-year old baby and spending the holiday parachute training with 60 young officers from the Duntroon Military College in the ACT.

Some of you might wonder, what a tender young mother of 19 was doing parachuting with 60 soldiers. But the question I was asking myself was, how did I end up a 19 year old mother living in Canberra?Not that I regretted motherhood for a second, but it just hadn’t been my plan….my plan was to buy a kombi van, drive north to join a commune in Hippy central tropical Nimbin, tie dye, make soap and live in bare feet. But there I was in cold Canberra, our seat of government, as far away from Nimbin you can get in climate and ideology, knee deep in nappies, and wearing two pairs of sox and boots. My plan in tatters, my sense of identity shattered and my self-esteem flattened… that’s why I was lining up in the ranks of our defense forces finest young men, taking a leap of faith…to restore my faith in me.

Every year the local skydiving club hosted the royal Australian army’s Duntroon officer cadets’ compulsory recreational parachute training camp. And that was the weekend I signed up for training. Our Instructor was Major Andrew Harris of the S.A.S, the special armed services- our elite trained killers, the toughest of the tough, the bravest of the brave and in major Harris’s case the macho-est of the macho.

The DrillOne of the first things he taught us was the PLF, the parachute landing fall. In those days, we only had round parachutes and they came down hard and fast. So, to avoid breaking bones you had to land with your feet and legs together at a slight angle then roll onto your thighs and hips to help distribute the shock. Major Harris had us jumping off the back of an army truck to practice. However, It was painfully obvious that I couldn’t do a PLF to save my life.

The 1 thousand, 2 thousand was our parachute drill. 1 thousand you arched your back, arms and legs out to fall stably, 2 thousand look and grab ripcord, 3 thousand pull rip cord, 4 thousand roll slightly to see if parachute deployed, 5 thousand grip reserve ripcord and 6 thousand pull reserve rip cord. The drill I had, I still have it, what I didn’t have was the strength to open a reserve parachute. My partner repacked the reserve chutes yearly and he often ran me thru the drill on the ground with a reserve chute which needed repacking but I in all the years I skydived I never managed to open one reserve chute on the ground.

Despite my lack of grunt power and the injuries I sustained just falling of the back of a truck, I was allowed to jump (Remember this was 1980 before health & safety seemed important.)

​The day of our first jump dawned, a chilly Canberra morning, crunchy frost under foot and air so crisp you could almost snap it. My nerves were so tight you could have snapped me! I wasn’t alone, the soldiers’ fear shrouded the drop zone like fog.

Time to kit up, leg straps check, chest straps check, helmet check, “all right soldier in the plane”. I waddled over to the plane looking more like a turtle than a burly soldier. My fears crowded into the plane with my fears, I thought this could be the last time I see my daughter. But as the plane ascended into the crisp blue sky a calmness descended on me.

Jump Run: GoOn the first jump run, Major Harris ordered power down, the plane backed off its speed and he sent the first soldier out. Hand over hand with military precision, the young soldier climbed out and hung off the plane’s strut. The Major yelled “go” but the soldier hung on, The Major screamed “go”, still the soldier clung to the plane, Major Harris roared “GO”, and still the stricken soldier hung on for dear life. In a change of strategy Major Harris called to the pilot for “power on” and the reluctant paratrooper was blown away.

Second jump run and my turn. “Power off, all right girlie out you go” Unlike the soldier before I was slow and clumsy climbing out but when Major Harris ordered go, I went! 1 thousand 2 thousand three.....my chute opened…. I enjoyed a few minutes of euphoria till I come back to earth with a thud…. I jumped up, waved to the crowd and smiled… then made my way to the hospital to check for fractures… luckily there were none just a massively bruised pride.

While most skydivers claim they lose their fear after a number of jumps, I never did. Though I continued skydiving for many years, while I was on the ground there was fear, I would always think, this could be the last time I see my children but once in the air, I was ready for that leap. Luckily during those years I graduated to the modern and softer landing square parachute….which was a great relief as I never mastered the parachute landing fall…and I still hadn’t managed to open a reserve chute.

One hot summer’s day when the heat was rising off the tarmac in shimmering waves at the Australian National Skydiving Championships, I was jumping out of an old propellered DC3 with 49 other skydivers. This many skydivers in the air at one time posed all new dangers. You could be hit by someone in freefall and killed. You could open your parachute, be hit by someone in freefall and killed or you could open your parachute and slam into someone else who has just opened their parachute and killed. But 50 of us took that leap of faith.

Do Or DieWe exited the plane at 15,000 feet, giving us over a minute’s freefall in which we were to perform numerous formations. At 3000ft we broke contact and I headed for a clear space to open my chute. At 2000 feet I pulled my ripcord…nothing, I tried again, nothing-terminal velocity, seconds to impact and time stopped. I remember thinking “SHIT this is it, do or die” (my military training), The emergency drill kicked in, I took hold of the emergency ripcord in both hands and pulled.

My emergency chute had an interesting history. It was secondhand and known locally as the “eighth of an inch chute”. You see its previous owner, deceased, had neglected to pull the emergency ripcord all the way out. Accident investigators found that a mere eight of an inch stood between his life and death.I pulled again and again…. The chute snapped open. Somehow, I had found the strength.

I guess it would be true to say that all my parachute jumps had been physical leaps of faith…and though there was fear, it doesn’t compare to the fear that comes with life’s metaphorical leaps of faith, starting relationships, ending relationships, changing jobs, moving home. In comparison skydiving is easy, make the decision then leap. No time to wonder did I make the right decision, no time for regrets, definitely no turning back and once you leap, the outcome is known within minutes, or if you are unlucky seconds.

​But metaphorical leaps take so much longer to land. They allow so much time for agonizing and that’s when the fear really kicks in. Did I make the right decision/ the wrong decision, what if it goes wrong, what if what if what if… time stops as the what ifs immobilize you…. And with the metaphorical leaps you can even turn around and scramble back on the airplane and continue on as before, safe and sound… but long plane rides though safe n sound eventually feel confined and uncomfortable…..and at some time you are forced to stretch your legs…. just like life sometimes forces you to stretch.

My Soul Called GOI recently made the biggest metaphorical leap of my life… but when my soul called GO, I went. The fear was overwhelming. The “what ifs” and “what have I done’s” plunged me into free fall. Not a nice stable free fall but a messy out of control flailing decent-terminal velocity, seconds to impact, then, grace and courage unfolded like an emergency chute. And I landed that leap when I married my new Swedish husband Ulf. And now we take another leap of faith as we look for a country to call home but happily that leap of faith is a tandem leap.

The Journey BeginsThis journey began in 2011 when I googled the International School of Storytelling, UK. When the photo of Emerson College appeared on the screen my heart burst into song. I didn’t know how or why, but I knew I was going there; my GPS had been set.

But I wasn’t to take the quickest route there and the school said they were not taking students outside of the EU. But I persisted and encouraged by my terminally ill mum, I embarked on an email campaign stating all the credible and incredible reasons why I should be allowed to attend.

After 2 years, on Christmas eve 2013, I was finally accepted into their flagship course “Storytelling as Performance Art” and excitedly I booked my flights and accommodation. But then I received an email from head teacher and master storyteller Ashley Ramsden, “if you haven’t booked don’t, this isn’t a suitable course for you because you don’t have the prerequisite of attending earlier courses, “too late coming ready or not”, I replied. Ashley said the pixies must addled his brain when he rubber-stamped my application.

So, with my late mum’s blessing (and eventually Ashley’s) and with the funds from mum’s estate, I flew to England. It was midsummer, and perhaps it was the pixies again or midsummer madness but I was filled with joy, dancing through the summer country, singing to the fairies. There was a deep sense of coming home.

In the storytelling class of eight, there were eight nationalities, a blonde Columbian, a small Geordie Jew, a young Japanese warrior, an Irish pirate queen, a Danish Valkyrie, a Mexican goddess and a tall serious Swedish storyteller.

​Beware of the WoodsIn those first days, I was walking everywhere barefoot to connect with the English soil and I soon noticed there was another barefoot enthusiast in the group, Ulf. The rather shy Swedish storyteller, eventually asked if he could walk with me and as we climbed over the stile and headed into the woods- I remember hearing a little voice saying, “Danger! If you go into the woods with that man, things will never be the same ever again” but I wasn’t some naive fairy tale character!

Our first walk was a two-hour barefoot stroll meandering through the woods and down the hidden paths of the summer country. The second was a three hour hike over hills and dales and through paddocks of stinging nettles. The third walk was an epic four-hour barefoot journey with a much needed “stop revive survive” at my first real old English pub.

It did appear at times that Ulf didn’t always know exactly where we were, or where we were going, but some-how he always managed to get us home…. eventually. On these glorious twilight walks we exchanged stories and discovered a beautiful soul connection.

​While Ulf introduced me to the enchanted countryside, English pubs and East Sussex Best Bitter, I introduced Ulf to the pixies, and the pixies to Ulf

Walks, Pixies and WorkOf course, it wasn’t all walks and pixies, there was hard work, as we each had to present an hour plus long performance for the public at the end of the course. It was confronting, difficult and oh so wonderful. Ulf and I rehearsed together, Ulf brought his wisdom and experience and I provided the pixies. The weeks flew by and our friendship grew.

After the hectic final week of performances, in the last days of the course, I had time to reflect on my 5 weeks at Emerson. The learning, the striving, the walking, the journey and the wonderful man. I couldn’t imagine not seeing that tall whimsical Swedish storyteller again. We both sensed that together, we held the potential for something wonderful.

On our final walk, a five-hour trek through fading golds of summer harvest, Ulf surprised the two of us saying… “I think it would be good idea if you married me”.

However, the next day Ulf left the college for Sweden, without my answer. I was in shock. My stomach was churning and churning, my thoughts were turning and turning, my heart was yearning and yearning and my big toe was throbbing and throbbing as almost tore the top of it when I was packing.

By the time I picked up my hire car from London… I was a mess, I didn’t know what to do, I wasn’t sure of my feelings… all I knew was that I needed to go to Findhorn in the north of Scotland. It was another irresistible urge, the same global pixie signal(GPS) which led me to Emerson. I didn’t know how or why but I set the hire car’s GPS for Scotland and drove.

I discovered European cars have the indicators on the opposite side of the steering wheel. I was already confused and this just compounded it. I spent that first day driving, flicking on the wipers every time I indicated and indicating when it rained

Scotland-the Long WayAnd I had to indicate a hell of a lot, on the first day I drove 5 hours and ended up only an hour or so from London. In my defense, I was still in shock; from my mangled toe and the unexpected marriage proposal. I was in a strange country, I had no idea what direction I was going, or where I was…. But it did seem like I was driving a long way without getting very far.

When I pulled into a small petrol station and asked the young attendant if I was heading in the right direction for Scotland, her face might have given me a clue that something wasn’t quite right. I mean I had heard that English roads were narrow and quaint but every road??? All the way to Scotland??? I was ready to murder my GPS as she said for the 366th time in a posh English voice “In one hundred yards enter the roundabout and take the second exit.”

It was a slow trip to Scotland, an incredibly slow trip to Scotland. If I had been in a better state of mind I might have enjoyed the scenery, if I had been in a better state of mind I might have thought to check the car’s GPS settings. Even glimpses of large straight motorways in the distance just added to my confusion.My hire car’s GPS reflected my emotional state…

Fairy Godmothers do Exist in FindhornAt last I arrived in Findhorn, spiritual home of the Scottish wee folk, only to find everything booked out. Well, I did what all tired stressed out tourists do; chucked a temper tantrum, I jumped up and down; “Pixies, if you want me here, give me a place to stay now or I leave” and then “poof”, a woman appeared and said, “Are you looking for a room, I have a room”. Obviously, Scottish fairy godmothers do exist.

Sheepishly I followed to her beautiful B &B and the first thing I noticed on her wall was a photo of the Blue Mountains, then she told me about her connection to Australia and how she met a Swedish man on a short course and married him…and that’s when I heard my GPS giggle.

Findhorn is a magical place. Every time I felt overwhelmed by emotions I’d walk outside, and tree or a rock would call for me sit and rest. I even found my ancestors in a graveyard on the banks of the Findhorn river and I sat with David and Margaret and poured out my heart. They listened as only great great, great, great grandparents can. My ancestors and beautiful landscape of Findhorn calmed my mind and let me know my heart; I reconnected with my internal GPS; my Global Pixie Signal and it was calling for a complete change of direction.

Could I, would I really leave my old comfortable life in Australia for a new life with a man from the other side of the planet, who I‘d only known for 5 weeks?

You can ignore your GPS’ instructions…. but if you do she will tell you to do a U-turn at the first opportunity, and if you don’t do the U-turn she will simply recalculate the route to get you where she wants to take you. So, I went with my Global Pixie Signal. She had bought me to the joy of Emerson College in England, and then to the peace of Findhorn in Scotland and now she was guiding me Sweden and marriage.

​New Setting on the GPSSo, with the new destination on my internal GPS, I took some time to check the settings on my hire car’s GPS…yes it had been preset to avoid all major roads and motor ways so I reset it too and “poof” the motorways magically appeared. I drove down the motorway back to Heathrow and caught the plane to Sweden. And we married 4 months later.

​I highly recommend following your own Global Pixie Signal. You can take the direct route or the scenic route, it doesn’t matter. Only on the scenic route be prepared for roundabouts, lots of roundabouts but both routes will get you to the same place eventually. And keep a look out for your GPS’ “POI’s” or “places of interest” Because there just may be a “Person Of Importance” there, and he’s sure to be pure pixie magic.

The Forest of FairytalesThe Swedish forest, so very different from our leathery blue grey bush here with its brash cacophony of cicadas, cockatoos and kookaburras. The Swedish forest is dark, soft and hushed. Tall spruce and pine stretch into the sky like ancient battlements… beech and birch leaves glow green and gold in the shadows, blueberry bushes droop with plump ripe fruit and soft moss muffles all footsteps.

​Dark soft hushed, the forest of fairytales ….

It was just such a forest I found myself living on the edge of this year. The forest was just metres from the back door of the folk school where my new Swedish a husband and I lived. I wasn’t surprised when local news reported wolves in our area, as I fully expected to see little red riding hood skipping through the trees at any moment.

A 5km circular walking track wound its way around the forest from our door down past a lonely lake and back again. Some days I would walk the path, content to tred barefoot where countless others had gone before but sometimes I stood on the edge of that forest… and it called me to explore its mysterious dark depths. And so, like Little Red, I was lured from the well-worn path.

Bigger on the InsideThe path which circumnavigated the forest was only 5 kilometers long, so that meant the forest was… I don’t know, smallish? (I studied humanities not mathematics) And indeed some days it seemed very small. The forest called and I would step off the path onto the royal green carpet of moss before me. I would wade through the blueberries bushes into the dark cathedral of trees. Somedays, I could walk through the forest and be out the other side in just ten minutes but other days, I would wander over verdant hills & through shaded valleys, lost for hours. You see this forest was bigger on the inside.

I have always loved walking in nature, connecting with the trees and the elemental forces. However, in Sweden, walking in nature moved to a whole new level. I enrolled in my friend Caroline’s online course “Walking with Heart” and it focused on opening to childlike wonder, engaging the senses, and allowing gratitude to flow.

How do you open to childlike wonder? You experience everything as if for the first time, seeing it, smelling it feeling it, touching it appreciating it, talking to it and yes, listening for the replies. You explore everything through the rose tinted magnifying glasses of possibilities. It’s being mindful of the magic and the miracles in nature. And with this wonder, I experienced the forest through my heart.

One day I was following a trail of golden chanterelle mushrooms and they led me to a valley I had never seen before. With my golden treasure spilling from my arms I sat within a stone circle that unknown hands had formed. Tiny forest frogs no bigger than my thumbnail leapt for their lives as I, the giant walked through their Lilliput land.

Connecting heart to heartAnother day when the forest called I went looking for the stone circle again but instead found the ruins of an ancient building. I sat on the lichen decorated wall plucking ripe blueberries and popping them in my mouth. I closed my eyes and imagined who might the ancient builders been, Vikings perhaps? I sensed a presence, the ancient stonemason? I opened my eyes, a deer and her fawn stood before me, for a long moment her deep brown eyes looked into mine. And in that time, it felt we had connected heart to heart, and I was welcomed there.

Of course, there were days when I forgot the childlike wonder, and I walked through the forest like I was bustling down a city street. I would circumnavigate the forest and realised that I hadn’t seen a single tree. One evening, I’d been bulldozing through the forest, when I stopped and realised... I was laughing at myself when I saw a flash of light in a tree. Intrigued I wandered over and stood at the base of the tall pine. The tree showered me head to my feet in peace and from the earth joy snaked from my toes to my head. Then I heard grunting and snorting from the thicket in front, Wild Boar, more dangerous than wolves, so the Swedes say. Part of me screamed RUN! But the other part said Chill, its fine, you are welcome here. And I stood with the tree as two wild boar snuffled by.

Bountiful ForestI loved the generosity and bounty of the forest. To take a basket and gather berries, wild berries, rosehips and mushrooms was an absolute delight. The sitting and gathering invoked a sense of timelessness in me and awoke an inner ancient feminine flame. I began cooking and baking with a joy I have never experienced before or since. I baked bread, made rosehip soup and cooked blueberry jam & blueberry sauce, baked blueberry cakes and blueberry crumbles, all with the sense of wonder that the forest had freely gifted me all her bounty.

Early in September, the beeches leaves hung like golden hearts from the trees. It was the day after my mum’s birthday and two years since she died. She would have loved the forest and I wished that she could walk with me. I stood there in the dappled sunlight and shut my eyes. Instantly I was transported back to garden of my childhood under the massive eucalyptus that shaded the backyard, with the comforting sound of mum in the kitchen, mum was so near. When I opened my eyes, I felt her, right there beside me laughing.

Walking to BlissWe wandered, whither the wind took us deeper into the forest. I told her all that had happened, about married life with my new Swedish husband, about the magical Swedish forest. And while we walked and laughed, I over-flowed with happiness, in a state of bliss. As we came to a rise in the forest, we stopped, I felt the invitation, the pull… here was a threshold. I felt the beckoning to step across, to lose myself. To lose myself… in oblivion? Oneness, nothingness or was it everythingness?

​Perhaps I wasn’t ready to let go of my body, perhaps I wasn’t ready to let go of my identity. Perhaps I wanted to linger longer with mum. Perhaps it was an invitation to the great spiritual awakening. Perhaps it was a doorway to the elemental worlds. I don’t know for sure but I do know I spent the best day ever with my mum in that Swedish forest. And who knows, maybe one day, I will wander again whither the wind blows and that doorway will again open, and maybe, just maybe this time I’ll step through.

A Heart to Heart blog on life, spirituality storytelling & stories.

Lindy Mitchell-Nilsson is a celebrant and dynamic storyteller with a flair for the dramatic, a love of laughter and a shared passion for connecting hear to heart through the power and joy of storytelling.